Good Lookin' Page 6

This was actually going incredibly well. Her unattainable beauty had somehow relaxed me. I had nothing to lose. And by the way, I thought, psyching myself up, my mom says I have rakish good looks. “As I think you know, I’m a lawyer.”

  “Yes, Karen mentioned that. Criminal defense, right?”

  “Yes. And you?”

  “I’m a shepherd,” she said with a straight face. And that’s when I knew. Apart from her breathtaking beauty, it was then that I knew that Edna Christine Busier was the woman for me.

  “Your job must be fascinating. How honest do you suppose your clients are about their, um…”

  “Crimes?”

  “Yes. I was going to say activities.”

  It was a good question. “Often times not very. But I’ve gotten pretty good at telling when they are lying. At least, I think so.”

  The next hour flew by. As we chatted comfortably, making each other laugh, I gradually grew less self-conscious about the gap in our attractiveness delta. I learned that she was an archaeologist. I knew nothing about it, but it seemed like about the coolest job ever.

  As if I wasn’t smitten enough, I thought I detected a British tone to her speech. Not an accent, but more the way she emphasized words in a sentence. And even when I’d made boneheaded comments, she’d laughed them off and made me feel okay. “An archaeologist? Wow. So like, digging,” I’d heard my inner idiot say, cringing.

  But we’d both started laughing immediately at the stupidity of the comment, and Eddy pulled out a fake notebook, mouthing, “Knows it involves digging. Check.”

  When it was time to go, I desperately wanted to ask to see her again. I thought she was even pausing, hoping I’d mention it.

  “Well, Joe, see if you can tell if I’m lying.”

  “Okay, I’ll give it a shot.”

  “I’d like to see you again.”

  “Well, Eddy, we just met, but so far you don’t strike me as evil and sadistic.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “So I’d be delighted to see you again,” I said, failing to rein in my goofy smile.

  “Good. I really had fun. Talk soon,” she said, getting up to leave.

  “Me too.”

  I walked home on cloud nine, reliving every line of our conversation and making plans to get in shape. Tomorrow I’d stress about when to text or call, but for now I was determined to revel in my bliss.

  Back home, I made coffee—I didn’t recall actually drinking any with Eddy—and enjoyed what I vowed was my last bowl of Frosted Oaties for a while. Having been denied sugared cereals growing up, I’d made up for lost time as an adult. But now, it was time to make some changes.

  I was aware that my dietary and exercise trends had usually tracked my relationships. I also knew that my usual pattern of setting unreasonable expectations combined with my lack of discipline inevitably led to a quick burnout and eventually, regression. Last time, I didn’t get past day one, the five-mile run rendering me barely able to walk the next day.

  This time would be different. I was in decent shape already, and I’d be smart, easing into regular workouts. It all seemed so simple from the comfort of my recliner, I thought, feeling a nap coming on after the sugar high.

  Later, though, I would manage a run around the neighborhood after a reasonable number of pushups. Eight, to be exact. Afterwards, wobbling up my stoop to find Alley at the front door, I knew I’d be sore tomorrow.

  I cracked open a beer and sat at the dining room table, the open coroner’s report where I had left it. I flipped through the rest of the pages. The most depressing part for me was always the painstaking documentation of the victim’s clothing and personal effects. The victim wore a summer camp T-shirt and new blue and gold basketball shoes. He had a movie stub and subway ticket in one pocket, a wallet containing twenty-one dollars in the other. He wore a retainer on his teeth, two friendship bracelets on his left wrist, and a Saint Christopher medal around his neck.

  Somewhere in the description, as was usually the case, the victim laid out on the cold metal autopsy table became seventeen-year-old Cleveland Barlow, who was going to miss the last train home.

  ****

  The next morning, I opened the search warrant file on my laptop. After Darnell’s arrest, Detective Bosco had drafted a search warrant for the Moore residence and an affidavit, summarizing the evidence against his suspect in a sworn statement. The detective brought the affidavit to the judge on night duty, who signed the search warrant.

  Most Sundays found me walking to a local park with the paper and an everything bagel. Today, though, I was drawn back to the Moore case. To date, at least as far as I knew, I’d never lost an innocent client to life in prison, and I didn’t want Darnell to be the first.

  Besides, I needed something to occupy my mind to keep me from firing off a text to Eddy first thing in the morning. While I had given up on appearing mildly indifferent to her, I still recognized the advantage of showing some restraint.

  I reviewed a supplemental police report which documented Darnell’s arrest. He’d been home in bed when the arrest team showed up at six o’clock a.m., the hour intentional so as to catch their target at home and asleep.

  Understandably, arrest details in homicide cases were forced to assume the worst—an armed gunman who would resist. That meant the team surrounded the family’s apartment with a SWAT team and announced their presence on a loudspeaker, ordering every occupant out of the house.

  At least Darnell hadn’t run from the police. Not only would it have been another piece of difficult to explain evidence, his cooperation meant that there had been no need for the concussion grenades or smoke bombs. I imagined the horror and confusion of Darnell’s mother and his little brother, forced into the street in their pajamas.

  I glanced at my phone and checked my messages for the third time. Enough was enough. I’d already drafted the text last night, aiming for just the right note, somewhere between over-eager and apathetic.

  —Hi Eddy. It’s Joe. I really enjoyed myself yesterday and I’d like to see you again soon. I’m not in trial, so my schedule is flexible—

  I pushed send. Looking back, I supposed, it was a little embarrassing that I’d worked on it for over an hour, but I was satisfied.

  I knew the timing of my text to Eddy had something to do with avoiding the next document on my screen, the Search Warrant Inventory. While the police didn’t always find incriminating evidence when they searched my clients’ homes, the first time the searches were helpful to the defense would be the last.

  The first fifteen items were more photos of Darnell with members of the Iceboyz flashing gang signs, posing with large amounts of cash and various semi-automatic weapons. I knew a jury would find item sixteen particularly incriminating. Seized from Darnell’s bedpost, it was a blue baseball cap emblazoned with “KC.” The cap, favored by Iceboyz members, denoted a “Cashtown killer”, referring to Cleveland Barlow’s gang. I couldn’t wait for Darnell to explain how he was actually a Kansas City baseball fan.

  Then I scrolled down and implausibly, things got much worse. Found in a shoe box inside a hallway closet was a SLAZIK 27 handgun. I hated guns but out of necessity had gained a working knowledge of them. I knew it was a semi-automatic handgun but didn’t know if it shot forty-caliber bullets. I assumed the worst and quickly word-searched the gun.

  Amazingly accurate and controllable, the SLAZIK 27 puts ten rounds of forty-caliber ammo at your fingertips in a package small enough for a pocket or ankle holster.

  I went back to the report to see if there were any bullets left in the gun. No, none in the chamber and the clip was empty. “Of course it was empty, ladies and gentlemen,” I heard Didery telling the jury, “because Darnell Moore had fired all of his bullets at West Eighth and Maybeck.”

  I stared at the screen and for the first time was ready to admit to myself I was wrong about Darnell Moore. The voice in my head telling me Darnell was not capable of killing another human being was now a faint whisper, drow
ned out by a roaring stadium.

  I breathed deeply and assessed. Darnell’s car was on video, its occupants committing the fatal drive by shooting. The shooter, according to a witness, looked like Darnell, and he had admitted “probably” being in the area at the time of the shooting. He was a gang member with motive to kill a Cashtowner like Barlow and was found in possession of a weapon of the same caliber that had been fired at the murder scene.

  I was mad at myself for being conned by someone so young and inexperienced. I remembered how cool and relaxed he was the first time we met. Just as he had planned, I had mistaken the self-assurance as proof of his innocence.

  More than that, I had been stubborn. I made snap judgments all the time. This guy’s a jerk, that guy’s honest. Come to think of it, I had just made a very exciting one yesterday morning. I was generally fairly accurate, but not perfect. This time, though, in the face of an avalanche of evidence to the contrary, I had maintained my obstinance.

  I needed to blow off some steam and decided to go for a run. It usually helped me think, and two consecutive days would probably tie my all-time record. Following my typical path, I headed east through the quiet streets of my Glenview neighborhood, uphill into the Oakland hills.

  As my lungs began to burn, the pain and fresh air improved my perspective. The case was not about me. It was not about me being duped by a teenager or being too stubborn to admit it. I grimaced at my selfishness and recalled other unflattering examples of my trait. I’d caught myself after trial losses lamenting my trial record while my client was led away in handcuffs.

  With that, I focused on defending Darnell Moore. His guilt was not for me to say. The discovery of the firearm had obviously been a severe blow. However, forty-caliber handguns were extremely common in Oakland, right up there with nine-millimeters as the city’s most popular, based on my unofficial survey.

  However, it was the potential for even more devastating evidence that had me worried as I mercifully turned downhill to jog home. Assuming sufficiently intact bullets could be recovered from the crime scene, ballistics tests could prove whether or not they were fired from Moore’s gun. While the current state of the evidence was quite grim, a positive ballistics finding would be game, set, and match.

  I turned off my brain for the last half mile and arrived at home exhausted and sore but proud of my effort and in a much better frame of mind. I felt like pizza but didn’t want to undo my progress.

  My cell phone rattled on the kitchen table where I had left it. The text was from Eddy.

  —Hi Joe. I had a very nice time with you as well. Does Thursday work? I have the day off—

  I was ecstatic. Although she’d seemed sincere when she’d said she wanted to see me, there was a part of me that wondered. Part of it was my last serious relationship, ending as it had in such a spectacular inferno of deception. Part of it was Eddy herself and her stunning beauty and charm.

  But she had texted after all.

  I called the pizza place but ordered salad. I would end up filling up on peanut butter sandwiches and beer, but I was proud of the initial thrust. I shut my laptop for the night and turned on a ballgame, determined to maintain my good mood. In the back of my mind loomed the anxiety of date number two, but that could wait.

  I reclined and washed down peanut butter with a caramel stout. I looked at her text again. Not just a nice time. She had had a very nice time.

  Chapter Ten

  Real courage is when you know you’re licked before you begin but you see it through to the end no matter what.―Harper Lee

  Oakland, California 2006

  “Hey, Messy.” The big kid they called Stoney gestured toward a mud puddle. “You and your smelly brother’s drinking fountain is over there.” Damon usually stuck close to his twin during recess, but Jesse had wandered off to the drinking fountains.

  “What a surprise,” Stoney’s friend jeered, “Messy’s wearing the ratty orange shirt again. The one he blows his nose on.”

  Damon began hustling toward the fountains where a crowd was gathering. He and Jesse had heard the taunts of “Dirty Damon” and “Messy Jesse” before, but they had become more common lately, and he could tell his brother was ready to snap. As Damon approached, he heard calls of “fight” and saw the jostling circle of kids that always surrounded a playground scuffle.

  Damon shoved his way through the crowd to find Jesse on top of the bigger boy, raining fists on him in a wild fury. Damon pulled him off, bear hugging him from behind as Jesse continued to flail in the air frantically, desperate to inflict more pain. Damon held him there as the crowd gradually dispersed, leaning against the wall of the school, feeling his brother’s heart pound through his shirt.

  “I ain’t never seen you like this, Jess. You okay?” he asked cautiously after he had finally released his hold.

  Jesse’s red and tear-streaked face turned toward his brother, but he didn’t answer. Damon stood there, stunned as the recess bell rang, his brother’s face singed into his memory.

  He knew Jesse’s every look. They were his own identical facial expressions, after all, so he had recognized every smirk, eye-roll, and variation on a smile, no matter how subtle or fleeting. But this was different. Although Damon had never seen it before, the look was unmistakable. He could even feel the expression himself, twitching somewhere just beneath his own face.

  As he watched him walk away, he wondered about the source of his twin’s pure and perfect rage.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Yes!” Andy punched the air as he walked into my office.

  “Oh, not many things make my partner that happy. What is it this time?” I asked. “Long term disability, brain injury?”

  “Nah. Broken arm—but—tada!—the client is a surgeon. Hello, lost wages!”

  “Ah, my partner the bottom feeder, preying on the misfortune of others.”

  “To the contrary. Unlike you, I right the wrongs of society. You defend the wrongs of society.”

  “Whatever gets you through the day.”

  “Hey, I heard you have another date tomorrow.”

  Up to now, I’d resisted the urge to ask Andy if Eddy had mentioned me to Karen, so I was happy he brought it up first. “Yeah, and by the way, you didn’t tell me she was a ten. Be honest, in the looks department, aren’t we on much different levels?

  “You guys are on different planets.”

  “Again, your support warms my heart. Do you have any intel for me?”

  “Apparently, against all odds, she likes you well enough.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She said you seem very nice and funny, but you talk about yourself a lot.”

  His words hung in the air. I felt ill and put my face in my hands. I knew I’d been a babbling idiot. Then I looked up to find Andy’s grinning mug. “Just fucking with you.”

  I looked around to find something to throw at him but, like all good PI lawyers, he’d already run for safety.

  I had spent Monday and Tuesday putting out fires in other cases and had just started digging back into the Moore case. Chuck planned to meet me in the office later today, and Rocco Bedrossian was bringing his dad in for an interview.

  I put in my headphones and opened the 911 call.

  “Operator, what’s your emergency?” I heard excited indecipherable phrases in a foreign language.

  “Hello, sir? What your emergency? Do you speak English?”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry,” Vardan Bedrossian began in his familiar accent. “I was excited. I speak English.” He was breathing heavily into the phone, clearly upset.

  “What’s your emergency?”

  “There’s been a shooting.”

  “Where?”

  “At West Eighth and Maybeck in Oakland. There’s a person lying in the street.”

  “Are you safe? Is the shooter still there?”

  “No. Shooter drove away.”

  “Did you get a look at the shooter?”

  “Yes. Young black man.�
�

  “Did you see the car?”

  “Please come. The boy is in the street.”

  “Sir…”

  The line went dead.

  I switched files, opening Bedrossian’s recorded statement at the police station.

  “This is Officer Zuckerman. I’m here with Mr. Bedrossian. It is March 24, 2021. We’re here at the Oakland Police Department. The time is one-twenty-four p.m. Sir, what did you observe on Monday?”

  “I was alone in the store.”

  “Okay, sir,” the officer said slowly, perhaps sensing a language barrier, “I’d like to know what you saw on the day of the shooting.”

  “Yes. I was sweeping near the front door. I opened the front door to sweep the dirt outside. I heard the sound of screeching tires. I looked up and saw a car in the street, firing at the house across the street.”

  “Can you describe the vehicle?”

  “I don’t know cars.”

  “Big car, small car? Color?”

  “It happened very fast. I was focused on the shooter.”

  “Who was shooting? The driver or a passenger?”

  “The driver, yes. The passenger, I didn’t see.”

  “Was there a passenger?”

  “I didn’t see for sure.”

  “How about the driver?”

  “He was like the guys in the photos.”

  I took off my headphones. This was interesting. Bedrossian had already seen the photo lineup when he described the shooter. I wondered if it hadn’t been for Bedrossian’s comment if I ever would have found out.

  The officer continued, undeterred. “White guy? Black guy?”

  “Black guy. Light skinned black guy. Young. Maybe twenty.”

  “Any facial hair?”

  “I don’t recall any. No.”

  “Ever seen this guy before that day?”

  “No. First time.”

  “Anything else?” The officer paused, waiting for a response. “Okay, it’s one-thirty-seven p.m. We’re all done.”

  I reclined at my desk and digested Mr. Bedrossian’s identification of Darnell, such as it was. First, he had witnessed a shooter on the move. It stood to reason that the shooter was turned away from him, toward his targets. Even if he had his eyes on the road, the view was, at best, a profile.